Journals of Horror: Found Fiction

by Todd Keisling

  Back when I first came here they were calling me the next Patricia Cornwall and my first two books were selling like hotcakes. My pockets were full of royalty money, and my mind was filled with the idea to return to the country living of my youth, away from the dingy city I found myself in. My weeks were spent writing the next book, and my weekends were spent driving through the countryside, looking for homes for sale. Backroads led to backroads, dirt, gravel, paved, I rode them all. None of the houses I saw seemed right. I wasn't sure what I was looking for, but I trusted I would know it when I saw it. And I was right. Or maybe it found me. Nothing’s really clear anymore.

  Down a narrow dirt road lined with stately old growth forest, replete with Spanish moss hanging low, I found my dream home. It wasn't the house itself that drew me to it, I recall, but the porch. The house itself was rather plain, just a simple one story brick building with large ivy patches growing up its sides. Just two bedrooms and a bathroom, and a small pond out back I would come to find. But it had this huge wrap around concrete porch, with surprisingly ornate wooden beams for support. Each column had what looked to be hand carved hunting scenes around the base of each. The moment I saw it, I couldn't imagine myself writing anywhere else but there. It was like I was bewitched. Maybe I was. Suffice it to say, however, I didn't write another word until I closed on the house a month later.

  Those first few days in the new house were spent moving what meager possessions I had cared to bring, and doing a good bit of cleaning, as the house had been empty for a decade, I was told by the realtor. By the third night, however, I was settled enough to pull out my old Selectric that I wrote on. I had bought an old mahogany desk complete with worn brass handles from an antique store and had placed it on the porch for just this purpose. It’s what I'm typing this missive on right now, in fact. At one time it would have held reams of paper, notes, books for research, spare ribbons...the tools of my trade. Now it only holds this Selectric, a tumbler of whiskey, and to my left a shiny new pistol. First one I've ever owned.

  I digress. Back to that first night. So I sat down with the intention of continuing the next manuscript. I was at that point about halfway through with, another murder mystery, the third in a series. Today I can't even recall what its name was to be, which would have made me sad, but resignation is all that rules me anymore. That and fear.

  So I sat there, fingers on the keys...and nothing came. My whole life for the past month had been getting to the moment where I could write again, only to find I was stuck. The most crippling writer’s block of my life. It’s like the city was my font of inspiration, and now that I was gone from it, the well had dried up. I leaned back in my chair and just stared at the typewriter for hours, trying to think of what to write.

  That’s when I first heard it, a little whisper on the wind. So faint I wasn't sure it actually happened audibly, perhaps it was, and is, all in my mind. It was a silky seductive whisper, a hint of an idea, a flicker of thought. It was a seed of an idea, a tale of eldritch horror, of madness and despair. My fingers were suddenly electrified, flying to the keys. Before I knew what had happened I had 20 pages written, the start of a new novel that would go on to be 'Lives of the Damned.' Yes, that one. Now you know who I am, I suppose. Good. It will save some time.

  That first book was definitely the hardest. I wasn't used to listening to the whispers at that point, and at times they were hard to hear. I tried not to think about what their origin could be; at that point mostly thinking that it was my subconscious helping me with my writer’s block. I mean it had to be, right? Any other idea was just crazy. The wind doesn’t whisper stories of ancient evils, it just doesn't.

  Two feverish months later it was finished. My publisher accepted it, but refused to release it under my name. It was too different, too dark and twisted, compared to my previous works that they still hoped I would continue to crank out. They didn't want to taint an established brand so to speak, but the new book was too entrancing not to release.

  At first it didn't sell anything. I think 20 copies sold in the first four months. It was nightmarish. The publishers could not figure it out. But then suddenly, it started picking up steam, and now, well you know. It hasn't dropped below 30th place on the New York Times Bestsellers list in nine years. I could easily have retired, never have to work another day in my life.

  But I couldn't stop writing. Every day I would sit on my porch, not caring how hot or cold it was, whether it was raining or once even while it snowed. It doesn't snow much where I live, but there I sat, wrapped up in a bundle of blankets, wearing gloves with the index fingers cut off so I could peck away. Every day the wind blew, and every day more secret whispers came. I was cranking out at least one book every three months. Even now I have a stack of manuscripts that have never been read by anyone but me, and thankfully now never will.

  The first trouble came when my third book, 'Ashes of Evil' had been in print about a month. My publisher called to inform me I was being sued. My mind instantly went to copyright infringement, but no he worriedly told me, it was nothing like that. It seems a young man had taken my writings a bit too seriously and had killed a family in Texas, scrawling quotes from my books on the walls in their blood. Then their bodies had been scattered over four states until he reached the ocean and with their heads tied to his belt, walked into the sea, drowning himself. It had reached national headlines, but having turned into a complete recluse by this point I had not heard of it. The families of the murderer and murdered in a strange show of solidarity were both suing me, saying my books were why he did what he did. The concept of personal responsibility has gone to shit in this country.

  The case was thrown out, I don't know the details, I didn't ask. I was too busy writing. But other murders and their resulting lawsuits would follow. My publishing house ended up hiring a full time legal team from some fancy Boston law firm to specifically handle all the lawsuits directed at me I'm told. But I was making them so much money that it was peanuts really. Besides, practically all of them never make it to court. I've never had to pay a dime in damages.

  I could have, though. I never spend the money I make, beyond simple necessities. I mean I never leave this house except to go to town for supplies. And thanks to the advancement of the internet I rarely have to do even that anymore. I'm worth close to a billion...but live in little more than a shack in the woods. I haven't ever even bought a new car since I moved here. None of that matters.

  Anyway, as I sat there on the phone with my publisher about the killing in Texas, leaning back in my ragged leather writing chair taking long drags on my cigarette, I found myself staring at the column closest to me. I never knew what kind of wood the columns were, probably oak if I had to guess, just that they with their ornate carvings is what drew me to here. I could clearly remember how they looked on that first day. Only now, they had changed. It was subtle, but I knew they had. The hunting scenes around the base had all been scenes of shaggy dogs chasing skinny almost emaciated looking foxes. Now though, in each of the carvings, the fox had been caught, one of the dogs having it by the throat. I dropped the phone, my publisher still prattling on, and got on my hands and knees to crawl over and look closer. Nothing else had changed about it, just the lead dog had moved up and caught the fox.

  I had a bit of a break down then. I don't remember anything about the next three or four days, just that when I 'came to' I was back sitting in my chair, a fresh sheet of paper in the Selectric. It’s amazing how durable and flexible the human mind is. I decided that the carvings must have always been like that, and moved on. The writing was an addiction, and those whispers where far worse than heroin.

  The years passed. I was this generation’s Lovecraft, only with the popularity of a J.K. Rowling. I was so rich that the publishing company hired someone to live as my pseudonym to deflect rabid fans away from their prize hermit in the hills.

  This would likely still be going on unchanged if it wasn't for the rise of the internet. When I started writi
ng, libraries were the most efficient way to do research. Even though the whispers gave me great ideas, always giving me amazing stories to tell, it was still on me to give it flair, and the gloss of reality that only research can provide. My mornings were normally spent either going to town for books and food, or at my desk reading and taking notes, for that night’s marathon writing session.

  It took some time, and the prodding of my lawyer, accountant and publisher, but eventually a laptop with internet access was set up for me. A helpful tech taught me the ins and outs, and with a hefty donation to the local internet company, a T1 line was run to my house.

  My mornings now were spent in research on the internet. Due to the subject matter of my books consisting of ancient horrors and horrific cults, you can imagine the dark corners of the internet I visited in my search for knowledge. It was here that I began to pick up the first hints of what would prove to be some truly troubling developments.

  Around the world, in every country my books were in print, it seemed that groups devoted to my 'teachings' were cropping up. Cults, in other words. At first glance they seemed harmless enough though, so I didn't find myself overly worried about it, instead finding myself to be oddly flattered. I resolved to keep a check on the websites of a few of the more developed looking ones, maybe give my publisher a ring about them. But I didn't, not really. And it never occurred to me that any cult that took themselves truly serious about this wouldn't be the kind of group to have a website.

  It was around this time that I began to notice that the carved ivy on my columns did not so much resemble ivy anymore, as it did oddly leering pointed faces. Even the columns themselves seemed to be oddly twisted, as though warped by age and weathering. But it had to be my imagination, right?

  My writing continued on, going more smoothly than ever. My addiction was mellowing somewhat, though. Maybe my actual subconscious sensed the danger. I still wrote constantly, but now it seemed more from habit than overwhelming need. In fact, I began to take the occasional day off, at first just once a month, but eventually a day or two a week. I tried renewing old friendships long since forgotten in the haze of writing. I got a cat, Riff. I reconnected with my brother. It was a good time.

  The wind, however, was not pleased. Its whispers grew more harsh, more demanding. Subtle threats and insinuations came on the days I didn't write. But I had so convinced myself that it was just my subconscious that I figured it was just its way of making sure I kept up with my schedule. I noticed, however, that the ivy faces looked less leering and more disapproving.

  I began to actually pay attention to things outside the world of my writing. I began to listen to my publisher as he talked about the various lawsuits arrayed against me. I began to realize the enormity of the horrors that had been wrought in the name of my books. Literally over a hundred killings at that point had been linked to my writings. I was horrorstruck; literally, I became sick when I found out, heaving retches that covered the porch. Most maddening was how quiet it all was. I would have thought that the major news organizations would have pounced on this, calling me out as a sort of pied piper of the mad. But no, it’s as though someone was working to keep it all hush hush. I mean the killings of course made the news...but their ties to my books, beyond that first Texas massacre, never hit the mainstream news.

  I got it in my mind to retire. It was too late now, my books were already out there in the world, but I could do my best to ensure that I did not add to the problem by continuing to churn out horror after horror.

  So one night, about a couple of weeks ago now, sitting out on my porch I gave my brother a call, and told him my decision. It was a night much like tonight, inky black and thickly humid, with naught but the sounds of the cicadas to keep me company. As I talked to him I could tell he was quite happy at the news, anticipating actually getting to see me on a somewhat regular basis. And as I had also expressed my concerns about the damage my books were having, he felt it was a great idea. And that’s when it really all went wrong.

  As I was talking to him I began to notice a low rumble, as of an old truck coming up the dirt road to my home. But as it grew louder I began to feel the porch beneath me hum with vibration. My feelings of relief were quickly turning into those of terror. I hurriedly hung up the phone, I think, maybe I just dropped it in my horrified state. But right there in the middle of worn grey concrete a spiderweb of cracks had spread out, with an eerie green glow shining out of them. If you've ever seen the way an indoor pool reflects light onto a ceiling, it undulated and swirled almost exactly like that, complete with an odd throbbing pulsing noise. A sulfurous smell burned my nostrils, causing me to gag a bit. I stood there in shock, watching the cracks spread wider and faster till they practically were at my feet. The ever-present whispers had turned to rage-filled screams, so loud and distorted I could make out little of what they were saying beyond one phrase it repeated over and over “Samael Yaldabaoth.” I knew this from my writings, which scared me beyond measure, as it is the great evil of most my books, literally meaning The Blind God, The Child of Chaos. In my writings he is the source of all evil, the creator of the prison that is reality.

  The cracks in the concrete began bulging up, causing great rents in it, that glow now so bright it was a though a green sun was bubbling out of the porch. From within that brightness I got a hint of something living, something supremely malign was coming. A scream rent the night, though it took me a moment to realize it came from my own throat. I got a hint of something clawed coming out before I blacked out, falling forward and hitting my head on my writing desk.

  I was out for about twelve hours. When I awoke, it was bright day out, and half my face was caked with blood from a gash on my head. I wish I hadn't. I slowly got to my feet and staggered to my car and went to the hospital. Seven stitches later they released me under my own recognizance. I sat in my car for what must have been two hours, at first crying, then just staring at the wheel, debating on if I would return to the house. In the end I foolishly decided to return.

  The porch was not buckled up anymore, though the cracks (not glowing thankfully) where still very much there. Even more disturbing was how the cracks seemed to make a pattern which had come to me in a dream six years ago, and is even still the cover of my 9th book “Samael Chained.” Lovecraft had his elder sign, and this you could say was my homage to that. Only later had I found that it was actually a very old, but rarely used symbol from ancient Mesopotamia or some such place.

  Regardless of that, a quick search got me the number of a mason to come repair the cracks sometime later in the week. I followed that with a hesitant call to my publisher informing him of the retirement, which to my relief did not involve ancient evils crawling up through my kitchen floor. He was of course distraught but I quickly ended the call and fixed myself a tall tumbler of whiskey and stepped out to the porch to watch the sunset, my eyes nervously finding their way to those cracks.

  Ice tinkling in the glass, I leaned against one of the columns and gazed out over the yard towards the sun which was quickly dropping over the tall oaks. My tomcat Riff strolled up and wrapped himself around my legs in a fury of purrs and awkward squawking meows. For a moment life seemed to be good...but I couldn't stop glancing over towards the cracks in the porch. The pain in my head and those cracks served as a constant reminder that last night something very weird and very bad had happened. I knew I should leave...but some contrary bit of my psyche refused the very notion. I hate myself for not listening, god damn me.

  The sun gone, and the night bathing all in darkness I sat in my worn chair and flicked on the lamp, leaning back, and taking long sips of the warming liquid. Before long I had poured myself another...and another...

  Well and truly drunk, I listened for the whispers, daring them to come with a courage born of alcohol. I saw Riff’s eyes peering out at me from the late blooming azaleas, and laughing stood up and careened over towards him thinking to catch him up and rub his belly. Only right as I got to the edge o
f the porch I heard Riff’s distinctive meow from atop my desk. Turning my head, sure enough Riff sat there looking at me. Whipping my head back to the eyes in the bushes, I saw them wink at me, then in a rush of breaking branches I heard whatever it was crash through my shrubs and race off into the darkness. At that point all I could see was a hint of something low to the ground, with perhaps more than the normal amount of legs. Whatever it was, it was definitely not a possum, or raccoon, or anything natural to the area. As it slipped into the treeline, I heard what sounded like a wheezing laugh, as though it was mocking me. Sober now I went inside, locking the door for the first time ever at night.

  That night was the proverbial head under the covers kinda night. I even pulled the cat under them, though he was clearly not thrilled by the act. I swore I heard scratching at the walls and an occasional wheezing laugh outside. I resolved that this would be my last night in the house.

  But come the dawn my mind had convinced itself that in my drunken state, and with a pretty bad head wound, that I had simply mistaken a woodland creature of some sort. That 'laugh' was all in my head. But those cracks were still there. Those I couldn't discount, no matter how hard my mind tried.

  A mason came out that day and mortared over the cracks, smoothing out my porch back to its previous state. He commented on its oddness, saying he'd never seen concrete crack like this, but I told him some movers had dropped something heavy there. He looked as though he didn't quite believe me, but resigned himself to just roll with it. He may well have noticed how nervous I was. I was a bundle of tics and fearful glances that day.

  As soon as it got dark, no matter what I had rationalized that morning, I stayed inside, not daring to wander out onto the porch. I stayed in and watched the evening news for the first time in a decade. I was shocked at the horrors that were seemingly common place now. I wondered how much of this was my fault, creating a generation that was raised on tales of the darkest horrors, inured and even embracing evil as no generation before it. Sick to my stomach, I turned it off and went to bed.